MARSEILLES

MARSEILLES

Morning had fully settled by the time Roger wandered through one of the poorer quarters near the harbour.
Although it was not a huge distance from England the low throb of the ships engine coupled with a sea swell and lack of food bought on a motion sickness like he had never had before.
Marseille was awake , he still felt tired and drained.
The city seemed to breathe.
Warm sunlight spilled between the buildings, turning the upper storeys gold while the streets below remained trapped in long shadows. Laundry hung from wrought-iron balconies overhead. Shutters creaked open. Somewhere a church bell rang out across the rooftops.
The harbour never truly slept.
Fishermen hauled nets onto weathered timber wharves darkened by centuries of salt and tar. Seagulls screamed overhead, fighting over scraps tossed from the morning catch. The smell was everywhere; fish, seaweed, salt water and damp timber mingling with tobacco smoke, horse manure and humanity.
Voices drifted from every direction.
French.
Italian.
Arabic.
Spanish.
Languages Roger could not identify.
Men pushed handcarts laden with produce. Sailors emerged drunk from taverns that had never closed. Dock workers gathered in knots beside warehouses waiting for labour.
Nobody looked twice at him.
Nobody knew his name.
Nobody knew his downfall.
The anonymity felt liberating.
And dangerous.
As he wandered deeper into the maze of streets, the respectable city gradually gave way to another Marseille entirely.
Paint peeled from walls.
Bad smells seemed thicker, the air less fresh.
Windows remained shuttered.
Doorways held men with watchful eyes.
Women lounged upon balconies smoking cigarettes despite the early hour. Speaking loudly in rapid fire French, mixed with other languages and with strong hand gestures, arguments?
Friendly discussions?
You could never tell.
Roger eventually found himself standing before a narrow building washed in fading red paint.
The establishment required no sign.
Its purpose was obvious.
A woman sat beside the doorway smoking. She had been talking to a mountain of a man, a man seasoned by the docks and the cold waters of the Atlantic.
She looked Roger over with practised eyes.
Not handsome.
Not ugly.
Not drunk.
Angry.
That caught her attention.
Without speaking she stood, and disappeared inside.
Roger followed.
The interior was dim and close. Heavy curtains blocked the morning light. Cheap perfume struggled unsuccessfully against the smell of stale smoke, sweat and wine.
The woman who eventually led him upstairs was no young beauty.
Life had seen to that.
Yet there remained something attractive about her; confidence perhaps, or experience. She had learned long ago how to read men.
And she did not like what she saw in Roger. He made her feel uneasy.
The room was small.
A narrow bed.
A wash basin.
Cracked wallpaper.
Nothing more.
Money changed hands.
The woman offered a tired professional smile.
Roger did not return it.
As the silence stretched, she became increasingly uncomfortable.
Most men came seeking pleasure.
Some sought companionship.
Others sought distraction.
Roger seemed to seek none of those things.
His eyes appeared fixed upon something only he could see.
The court.
The broken sword.
The ripped epaulettes.
The torn buttons.
His wife's tears.
No doubt his father's disappointment.
The shattered remains of a life that had collapsed within a matter of weeks , if not days.
The woman sensed it immediately.
Years in Marseille had taught her that anger could be far more dangerous than drunkenness.
"Easy, monsieur," she said quietly.
Roger scarcely heard her.
The humiliation continued replaying itself inside his head.
Every insult.
Every accusation.
Every sneering face.
Something inside him had broken.
What followed frightened her, not because she had never encountered violence before, but because there was no pleasure in him.
Every thrust hurt, every thrust harder than the last.
No passion.
No affection.
No desire.
Only rage.
Pure, cold rage.
It was as though he were trying to wrestle ghosts only he could see.
She pushed against his chest.
"Ça suffit."
Roger ignored her.
"Merde... arrête."
Roger did not seem to hear.
She shoved against his chest again.
"Putain, arrête!"
Roger continued.
Fear flashed across her face.
"Putain de Merde, arrête!"
Roger ignored her.
"STOP!"
The command cracked through the room.
Roger froze.
The spell shattered instantly.
For several seconds neither moved.
The woman backed away, breathing hard, eyes fixed upon him.
Whatever she saw there made her decision.
"Dehors."
Roger simply stared.
"Dehors, bordel!"
She gathered her clothing with trembling hands.
"Fous le camp!"
Within moments she was leaning over the stairwell screaming.
"Henri!"
Heavy footsteps answered below.
"Henri! Monte tout de suite!"
A second later her voice rose again.
"Bouge ton cul! Maintenant!"
The giant who appeared in the doorway looked as though he had spent his life loading ships.
Roger offered no resistance.
Perhaps he was too exhausted.
Perhaps he simply no longer cared.
The man dragged him down the stairs and hurled him into the street.
Roger struck the cobblestones hard. His clothes came afterward.
The door slammed behind him.
Marseille carried on as though nothing had happened.
A cart rattled past.
Seagulls screamed overhead.
Dock workers shouted somewhere near the harbour.
Life continued.
Roger remained where he had fallen.
Then, slowly, he began to laugh.
At first, it was little more than a chuckle.
Then it grew.
Louder.
Harder.
Almost hysterical.
The laughter echoed down the narrow street while passers-by deliberately avoided looking at him.
He laughed at the regiment.
He laughed at his wife.
He laughed at his father.
He laughed at Marseille.
Most of all, Roger Cutting laughed at himself.
Roger eventually collected himself and pushed himself upright from the cobblestones.
His head ached.
His pride hurt worse.
The laughter had gone now.
Only exhaustion remained.
He gathered his scattered clothes from the gutter and dressed slowly while Marseille carried on around him as though he did not exist.
Perhaps he didn't.
Roger Cutting was a disgraced officer.
A failed husband.
A disappointment to his family.
A man without purpose.
A man without a future.
And now a self-imposed man without a country
The thought should have frightened him.
Instead, he felt strangely calm.
The harbour drew him almost instinctively.
Perhaps it was the noise.
Perhaps the lights.
Perhaps he simply needed to be amongst people.
The Vieux-Port was alive.
Lanterns danced across black water. Ships crowded every berth. Fishermen unloaded catches while merchant crews shouted from rigging overhead. The smells of fish, tar, saltwater and coal smoke mixed together beneath the warm Mediterranean afternoon.
Roger wandered without direction.
Without purpose.
Until shouting erupted nearby.
A crowd had formed outside a wine shop.
Two men were fighting.
Not gentlemen.
Just two hard men trying to knock one another unconscious.
The crowd cheered.
Money changed hands.
Bets were shouted.
Blood flew.
One fighter split the other's eyebrow.
The second answered with a punch that sent teeth scattering onto the cobblestones.
Still neither man stopped.
Roger watched silently.
There was something almost primal about it.
No judges.
No accusations.
No lawyers.
No pretense.
Just two men settling whatever grievance existed between them.
Eventually one of them slipped and crashed heavily onto the cobbled street on his backside.
The crowd erupted with laughter.
The winner stood over him.
Roger expected another punch.
A kick.
Some final humiliation.
Instead, the victor simply held out a hand.
The fallen man stared for a second before taking it.
The crowd roared approval.
Both men were laughing now.
Actually laughing.
Blood ran down their faces.
One could barely stand. The other spat a big gob of bloody mucus onto the ground.
Yet moments later they were embracing each other while their comrades hammered them upon the back and dragged them toward the wine shop.
No resentment.
No threats.
No vengeance.
The fight was over.
Finished.
Forgotten.
Roger stood motionless.
The scene disturbed him more than the violence itself.
In the regiment a man's reputation followed him forever.
One mistake.
One scandal.
One failure.
And it remained.
The stain never left.
Yet these men seemed different.
They fought.
They bled.
Then they carried on.
Together.
Roger followed the crowd back inside.
Only then did he notice the uniforms.
White kepis.
Dark blue coats.
Foreign Legion.
The room was crowded with them.
Germans.
Italians.
Spaniards.
Men from every corner of Europe. All speaking a heavily accented French with a strange familiarity.
Some looked like labourers.
Some looked like criminals.
One or two looked suspiciously like former gentlemen.
Whatever they had once been no longer seemed to matter.
They were simply legionnaires.
The two fighters sat together at a table drinking from the same bottle while their comrades mocked both of them equally.
Nobody cared who had started it.
Nobody cared who had won.
Nobody cared what either man had been before arriving in Marseille.
Roger found himself staring.
For the first time since England, he saw something he had not realised he missed.
Belonging.
The thought came quietly.
Not as a decision.
Not as a plan.
Simply a realisation.
These men had all arrived here carrying something.
Failures.
Crimes.
Shame.
Regrets.
The Legion appeared to care very little about any of it.
Outside, church bells began ringing somewhere across the busy city.
Roger finished his wine.
When he stepped back into the street his course seemed obvious.
Not because he wished to become a legionnaire.
Not yet.
But because for the first time since his disgrace there existed somewhere he could go.
Somewhere that might take him.